


Once You Go Down That Road

by LadyJanelly



Series: Ben/Alec [1]
Category: Dark Angel
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Twincest, clone-cest, off-screen death of other characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-02
Updated: 2012-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-09 00:14:23
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/449106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyJanelly/pseuds/LadyJanelly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Terminal City falls and there's no going back.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once You Go Down That Road

Alec regained consciousness in the wake of the attack on Terminal City in some back-alley gutter. He was covered with his own blood and filled with a sense of betrayal that ached deeper than the bullet-holes. They were soldiers, God damn it. They deserved better than airplanes and bombs and gas. They deserved better than clean-up crews and three shots to the back of the head. 

Heavy water flowed through his fingers, stroked along his wrist and the exposed skin at his waist. It tugged on his hair, slow and gentle. It felt like Max, saying goodbye. He struggled for his next breath, there in the dark, narrow passageway. 

Booted feet splashed through the muck, coming closer. He could hear the muffled sounds of radio voices, echoing off of the pipes and walls--sweeper teams calling locations back and forth to each other. Alec forced his eyes to open. Two men moved downstream towards him, dressed in assault armor and helmets. 

“This one’s still twitching,” the closer of them said. He slid a fresh clip into his gun, should have done it earlier, and Alec was once again insulted by the low quality of the men who would end his life. A third slid in behind them, a pistol in each hand, so smooth and quiet. Alec tried to meet his eyes through the mirrored visor. His throat was too full of blood to speak, but he willed the newcomer to understand the plea on his face. Kill me, he begged with his eyes. Kill me before these buffoons can do it.

The bright strobe of muzzle flash and the sound of gunfire exploded into the close confines of the area. The bullets must have caught the approaching troopers in the small gap between the back of their helmets and the tops of their armored collars, because the exit wounds make red mist of their throats. 

Consciousness came and went for Alec. There were hands on him, tying rags against his wounds to keep pressure on them. The other man’s visor was up, and Alec recognized those eyes, green and intense, he just couldn’t have said where he’d seen them before. The guy stripped Alec out of his jacket and jeans and bodily wrestled him into the black body armor of one of the dead soldiers. 

“Breathe.” The single word was an order, and Alec was still enough of a soldier that he obeyed, concentrating on each inhale, waiting for each exhale. 

A hand swiped across his face, smearing wet-sticky-cold across his skin. Alec knew it wasn’t water. 

One arm scooped under his shoulders, another below his knees and he was lifted into the air. Nausea rolled through him and he had to redouble his efforts at breathing in order to not vomit up the small lunch he’d had two hours and the deaths of everybody he knew ago.

Movement made him sick, hurt in ways he’d never experienced, and that was saying something. His world narrowed to the arms of the man carrying him, the smell of leather and blood, gun oil and sweat. They came out into bright lights, some fool shouting into a megaphone so loud it was just noise, the roar of helicopters overhead. 

He could feel the man carrying him call out but he couldn’t make the words make sense. People in white rushed up with a stretcher and Alec cried out as he was laid down. The armored soldier stayed by his side, hand on his shoulder as Alec was lifted into an ambulance. 

Alec drifted. His war was over, his friends were dead, and his body was too broken to fight on, even if he knew who the enemy was.

Consciousness came and went, a radio wavering between static and music. The ambulance stopped at some point. Alec heard a double zip-zip of a silenced firearm and then they were rolling again. 

He must have gone under for more than a second, because the next time he woke the ambulance has been traded for a delivery van. The road rolled by under their wheels, a steady whine that suggested out-of-town driving. 

Hands touched his face, and the van was stopped, the side door open wide on a twilight view of trees and grass.

“You’re safe,” he said, but not him. The other him.

Steady hands peeled the bloodied body armor off of him, and Alec had to fight down the urge to vomit. He was sure it would hurt more than he could take, and having a fight he could win made it easier, as his wounds were tended to with firm, competent touches. He almost envied normals their tendency to faint at any little thing. It was his luck to be semi-awake through every scrape of the metal pliers against the bullets, the burn of alcohol, the needle hooking through his skin for each stitch.

The back of the van wasn’t a proper bed; the mattress from the ambulance gurney was thin and not very soft, but better than nothing. Alec’s rescuer rolled him onto his side, helped him to curl up into a fetal position. The motion was agony, but once he was still again, he felt safer, protected.

A thin blanket was spread over him, and then the soldier’s jacket he’d been wearing. He heard the movements of cloth and leather and then the other jacket was laid over Alec’s lower body.

Deft fingers opened Alec’s right hand and then closed his hand around the butt of a pistol, and he felt even safer.

He was startled when the edge of the blanket was lifted and bare skin slid in against his, warm like a healthy X-5. Soft breath tickled the back of his neck. The hands that had patched his wounds arranged his unresisting body. He was turned a little so he faced the door, and shit, he knew nothing comes for free, and he’d expected to get fucked on this deal, he just hadn’t expected it to be so literally or so soon. 

The expected fucking never came. The guy wasn’t even hard, and Alec sort of felt insulted. 

“Rest,” the other whispered, “Heal.” The gun in his hand rested beside the gun in Alec's.

His body heat leeched into Alec; his arm across Alec's ribs felt like Kevlar, just heavy enough that Alec knew he was protected. 

Alec might not have expected to live to see the morning, but for that moment, he felt safe.

 

\--------

The next time Alec came to, dawn was just breaking through the trees and he calculated he must have lost at least twelve hours. His other, Ben, was leaning up against the side of the van, Alec cradled in his lap. His skin was faded pale, and no longer healthy-warm. 

A thin red tube connected the inside of Ben’s elbow to the same place on Alec’s. A strange thrill shivered through him, a sense of connection he’d never known before.

Nobody had ever risked their life for him, not Max, not any of the humans or transgenics he’d fought and bled for.

Alec’s survival had never been anyone’s mission objective. It was downright unsettling.

Ben’s eyelashes fluttered and then sluggishly opened. 

“The best part of us,” he whispered. There was an expression of quiet awe on his face that Alec was sure his own hadn’t worn since Rachael. 

“Obviously,” he replied, filling in the gaps with sarcasm. He put a thumb over the spot where needle met vein and tugged the tube free. “You trying to kill yourself, genius?”

Crazy Ben, his murderous evil twin, who had killed at least five people for Alec in the last day alone, smiled down at Alec like he was stupid or high or both. “You’re the best part of us,” he said again, “You had to live.”

Coming up with a reply to that was more work than Alec was ready to face at the moment. He was quiet for a while, then “Max?” he asked, because he had to know. 

“Dead or scattered,” Ben replied, “All of them. Bulldozers were rolling in when we left. They were burying it all.”

Alec nodded and tried to swallow. There was a pressure in his chest; breathing was hard in a way that had nothing to do with his wounds. Ben leaned over him, soothed along his brow with his thumb. There was a gentleness there, but no understanding. It was like he sympathized that Alec hurt but didn’t feel it, didn’t understand it.

“We’ll rest another day,” Ben said, “And I’ll be strong again. They know by now that somebody made it out alive. We need to displace, probably as far as Mexico.

“No more psy-ops.” He whispered the promise. “No more missions, no more pain. We’ll find somewhere new and quiet where we can sleep as long as we want.”

Soft words and soft touches had always been some sort of trick in Alec’s life, luring him into hope and trust. He’d never thought he’d fall prey to them again and sure as hell not coming from his psycho look-alike. 

It must have been something else then, that soothed him, some other reason that he let his eyes close and turned towards Ben’s touch.

\-------

They slept away most of the day, stirring at nightfall like a pair of vampires from some stupid pre-Pulse movie.

“We’ll need real clothes,” Ben said as he pulled the military leathers back on. He didn’t talk much and Alec listened as he made his grocery list. “Cash, food, blankets. There was a farm house a few miles back. We can lay in supplies there.”

Alec felt ill. Soldiers, cops, and the lackeys that supported them, that was one thing. People, just living out their lives on a little farm somewhere, that was another.

“No,” he said, feeling soft, sentimental. “No collateral damage.”

Ben looked at him, a question in his eyes. “For Max’s memory,” Alec said, because it was easier than taking the stance for himself, easier if Ben argued with him about it. 

“She was your friend,” Ben said, watching Alec get dressed. It was slow going, and painful, but he knew his own body, could feel he was no longer in danger. An injury might have stopped him; pain could be worked around.

“She was your sister,” Alec told him, “It hurt her. What she had to do.”

A flicker of confusion flashed over Ben’s face, behind the careful Manticore neutrality. 

Alec’s eyes narrowed. “You know, Max? Dark hair, fast, tendency to kick below the belt?”

Ben just stared at him, blank.

“You were killing people?” Alec prompted. “She stopped you, broke your neck doing it. Any of this ringing a bell?”

Ben shook his head. Alec hoped he’d never looked so ridiculous. He frowned. Something was seriously screwed up.

“You are Ben, right? Come on, there can’t be a third.” He reached out and pulled Ben’s head down. Ben went along so easy with it, baring his spine to Alec, his bar code. That show of trust felt wrong, as wrong as the waves of scarred skin that flowed up the back of Ben’s neck. Enough of the bars showed through--unless there was a 393 out there somewhere, the transgenic in front of Alec was Ben. 

Alec stroked his thumb over the damaged skin, fascinated and horrified at the same time. “The fire?” he asked, “Manticore?” 

Ben’s head bobbed in a short nod, but he didn’t look up, didn’t pull away from Alec’s touch. 

Alec tried to think back, but he knew if he’d seen Ben he wouldn’t have forgotten him. It was always a good idea to keep track of one’s clones. 

“What unit were you in?” 

“No unit,” Ben said, and Alec could feel the hurt in that answer. Alone--it had to have been the worst punishment the superiors could devise, and they hadn’t even known it. He thought maybe that’s why so many had stayed with Max, when they knew scattering and going to ground would have been easier, that more would die together than apart.

“I was permanently assigned to psy-ops. For--experimentation.” Alec repressed a shudder. It was like one of the horror stories the youngest X5’s whispered back and forth after lights out.

“The fire came and you split,” Alec pushed, just to get the show on the road.

Ben nodded again. “The doctors ordered us out of our cells,” he said, in the ‘debriefing’ tone of voice, never mind that Alec was still stroking his barcode, that his head was bowed like he was in prayer. “The ordered us to our knees, hands on barcodes. Soldiers watched the door. The psy-ops guard walked behind our line and shot each specimen in the head.” 

Alec had seen some bad shit in his time, images that burned behind his eyes when he closed them at night, thoughts that flickered through his mind at unexpected times. Ben’s voice, flat and dead, sent a shiver through the core of him. 

“I couldn’t follow that order,” Ben said, “it was not in my mission parameters. I killed the guard. I killed the doctor. I killed the soldiers.”

Alec’s hand moved down, over the hard knobs of Ben’s spine--he’s the damaged part of them, burned and scarred and who knows what else on the outside. So damn broken and lost on the inside. 

“I opened all the doors, Alec, all through psy-ops. You weren’t there anymore.” He looked up at Alec, shame in his familiar eyes. “I was injured and the fire was spreading. The guards were organizing. I ran, Alec. I had to withdraw. Did I leave you? Were you still there?”

Ben’s hand slipped up under the edge of Alec’s jacket, pressed in against his skin like he needed to know if Alec was alright. 

Alec tore through his memories, searching for Ben in his two trips to psy-ops. There was nothing, but it must have been the second time when Ben saw him. After Beresford. After Rachael.

“I was outside,” Alec said, “On a mission. I got back in time to see the survivors scatter into the woods.”

Ben shivered in closer, chest to chest. He nuzzled into the crook of Alec’s neck, breathing him in. 

Fucked up, Alec thought, and then All that I have left. He wasn’t good at the comfort thing, but he draped an arm around Ben’s shoulders for a few seconds.

“Supplies,” Ben said, and Alec pushed him up. 

“Yeah. Let’s go.”

\-------

Alec was still sore and stiff from being shot a whole bunch of times. Ben took point as they came up on the little white farmhouse. The dog in the yard never even caught their scent before Ben was on it, breaking its neck. They ghosted through the entire home on the first pass, locating objectives and identifying possible resistance. 

They took food and clothes, $43 in cash, a stack of blankets and a spare pair of boots. Ben treated the petty larceny like a great jewel heist--silent and watchful and quick. Alec was happy that nobody died, that he didn’t have to choose between stopping Ben (or trying to) and seeing an innocent killed.

They changed clothes back at the van. Ben was a creature without modesty, and Alec couldn’t help but stare at the evidence of what he’d survived--the burn scars that wrapped across his back from neck to hip in a crooked line wider than Alec’s hand could span. He was leaner than Alec had ever been, his collar-bones sharp, hollows in front of his hipbones. There were three healed bullet holes that Alec could see--shoulder, side and thigh. 

Alec wanted to kill someone for every scar, every mark. A flame burned in his chest. There weren’t many people in his life that he full-on hated. Most weren’t even worth his notice. The few who had the power to matter didn’t feel anything for him, and that kept it impersonal. 

Ben climbed up in the front seat of the van, and Alec took the passenger side. Mexico, Ben had said, and Alec had no better suggestion to make. He hoped they could make California before White’s men caught up with them. 

And if not? He’d kill as many as White could send. He’d kill as many as it took for them to get free.


End file.
